


Effortless

by iacominus



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Combat, M/M, it's not a slow burn i dont have the patience for that it's like a mid burn, no beta reader this is a free-range organic fic, pre-release, so stuff is probably gonna be ooc but thats fine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-06-02 10:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iacominus/pseuds/iacominus
Summary: Felix puts a lot of work into his image and his combat skills. Sylvain does not. In fact, Sylvain is everything that frustrates Felix in a man. He's lazy, annoying, way too casual, and always improper. But the way Sylvain keeps beating him so easily in the sparring ring is the most frustrating thing of all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> basically felix and sylvain are polar opposites and i want them to fall in love. pre-release but the personalities are based on the short twitter bios so there's that.

Felix Hugo Fraldarius is just not built for spears. All his life he's trained with the sword; his body is slender, nimble, and compact, all the better to twist and turn around an enemy blade while dancing his way toward their soft spots. Spears require more strength. They're not hard to use effectively – the peasant soldier's weapon of choice - but they're useless without musculature behind them.

These thoughts rattle off in his head as justification for why he has just been floored by the blunted end of a spear for the third time this afternoon. The dirt of the courtyard is hot and he screws his eyes shut against the summer sun. He's breathing hard, a sore spot throbbing on his abdomen. It will bruise tomorrow, one of a dozen other bruises.

Sudden shade over him. Felix experimentally opens one eye to see Sylvain Jose Gautier grinning down at him. Sylvain's fiery hair sticks to his face with sweat, and his smile is so bright that Felix just closes his eyes again.

"Three to nil," Sylvain says cheerfully, not breathing as hard as Felix wants him to. "I think that means I win."

"When next Professor Byleth has us training with swords instead of spears," Felix says, "I'll kill you."

"Yeah, yeah." Felix opens his eyes again to see Sylvain helpfully offering a hand. "At least let me help you up."

Felix begrudgingly takes the hand and is pulled to standing. Sylvain's hands are bigger than his, his palms rougher. Peasant hands, Felix used to say, when they used to tease each other.

Sylvain is just plain bigger than Felix. A few inches taller (a fact he never lets Felix forget), broader shoulders, heavier arms and chest. Felix can remember when Sylvain was practically a runt. It irritates him. Sylvain claps him on the back and it almost sends him sprawling again, still wobbly from hitting the dirt three times in a row.

The worst part of it all is how easy Sylvain makes it look.

The rest of the Blue Lions sit on the benches on the edge of the courtyard, along with Byleth, who watches quietly. Dimitri pulls him over (Dimitri being here makes this more humiliating still) and sits him down. Mercedes appears beside him with a canteen of water. "You're covered in dust," she says.

Felix knows. He gulps down water – it's cool and sweet – and says nothing. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Byleth talking to Sylvain, while Ingrid hovers beside them. 

"You did well," Dimitri says.

"I did terribly," he replies.

"You'd have flattened anyone else."

'Anyone else' isn't the point, he thinks. The fact that he was bested at all stings. Bested by Sylvain. He makes a noise that means, more or less, "Sure, whatever," through his water.

Before anything else can be said, there's a commotion, a sound like several pairs of boots on packed earth. Eight pairs, in fact; the ice-blonde hair of Princess Edelgard catches the sun just so, making it look like her head is wreathed in white flame. The Black Eagles trail behind her.

Edelgard's expression is very serious, but she smiles at Byleth as she approaches. "Professor," she says, a note of confusion in her voice, "I did not expect to find the Lions here this afternoon."

Byleth shakes their head. "We have reserved the courtyard for practice today."

"I'm afraid I do not understand. Lady Catherine sent us ahead."

"Sword practice today," says one boy helpfully, a boy with close cropped pale hair that catches silver in the light. Caspar, it takes Felix a moment to remember his name. Caspar has a blunted wooden practice sword in one hand.

Byleth says something, and looks at a paper in their hand. "No, Tuesday, Blue Lions have the courtyard." Before Edelgard can protest, they say, "It must be an oversight. I will have Seteth check the schedules more thoroughly next time."

Felix assumes Byleth was just taking advantage of an apparently empty courtyard. They haven't been a professor for very long. It's rather refreshing, in a way, though Seteth will think otherwise later today.

Dimitri has stood up and is walking toward Byleth and Edelgard. Felix straightens in his seat and tries to look a little less beaten up. Byleth continues, “This might be a good exercise, actually. You do not spar with students from other houses very often, do you?”

“It has been a while,” Dimitri says. Felix knows that tone.

Edelgard turns back to the other Eagles. She’s grinning. “Well, what say you all?”

“We’re not afraid of a few overgrown house cats,” says a redheaded boy. The Duke of Aegir’s son; his name escapes Felix.

“And you think we have anything to fear from a flock of birds?” says Sylvain, “No matter how pretty they are.”

The commoner girl, Dorothea, scoffs at him.

“Then it’s settled,” Byleth says, approvingly. Dimitri and Edelgard shake hands.

Ingrid and Petra spar first. Ashe works his way around to where the Eagles are sitting; he’s crouched down and whispering something to Dorothea; Felix hears something about wagers. Pretty typical. He turns his attention to the two girls.

They fight to the best of five, as per usual. A match is won by a ‘fatal’ strike, or otherwise knocking the opponent to the ground. Felix’s stomach is still sore. Had the lances been real, that blow would have meant a long and painful death.

Ingrid has been taking extra courses in Pegasus husbandry, but her actual weapons training has fallen behind a little. The girls fight with lances, though, and Petra is more accustomed to the sword.

Ingrid takes first blood, catching Petra in the collarbone, but Petra bests her twice in a row. The fourth match is long, and close; Felix finds himself edging closer on his seat. 

Ingrid has taken her jacket off and tossed it to the ground, fighting in her blouse.

The girls seem evenly matched. They’re both red-faced, dripping with sweat, their braids heavy. Then, Petra swings low, catching Ingrid around the knees. Ashe, Sylvain, and Dimitri all boo loudly; she’s fighting dirty. Maybe Briggidmen just don’t have the same combat etiquette.

Ingrid doesn’t actually go down, but she’s thrown off balance just long enough that Petra levels her spear against Ingrid’s throat. A fatal blow. Ingrid drops her spear and raises both hands in defeat. Petra lifts her own spear and lightly taps Ingrid in the forehead. In broken Fodlian, Petra says, “You… are died.”

“I am died,” Ingrid agrees, smiling. She and Petra shake hands and Ingrid goes to collect her jacket.

Sylvain volunteers for the next bout. He struts out into the courtyard, arms wide and palms up, goading a challenger from the Eagles. Edelgard herself moves to stand, but the Aegir boy blocks her with one hand.

“Let me handle this fop, princess,” he says, with utmost bravado. “This will be no challenge.” Felix has half a mind to challenge von Aegir himself, just to knock him down a rung.  
Sylvain grins. “Adrestia’s finest, eh?” He pulls off his jacket and tosses it aside, and proceeds to roll up his shirt sleeves. “You might even make me break a sweat!”

“How about I break a bone or two?”

Ah, the esteemed art of trash talking. Byleth pipes up: “No broken bones if you can help it, please.”

Once both of them have spears, they drop into stance. They dance around each other, neither willing to move in for the first strike. Around now, Catherine shows up, but instead of interrupting the fight she moves to Byleth, her armor clinking, to whisper with them.

“What’s the matter, Ferdie?” Sylvain says, loud enough for the spectators to hear. Ah, Ferdinand, that’s the Aegir boy’s name. “Are you scared?”

Ferdinand narrows his eyes but continues to move. Sylvain begins a strike, but turns it into a feint – Ferdinand jumps out of the way of a blow that doesn’t arrive. He says  
something to Sylvain too low for Felix to hear, but Sylvain certainly isn’t staying quiet.

“Come on Ferdie, I’m right here!” He bounces on the balls of his feet. “You can see me, right, Ferdie?”

“Stop calling me that,” Ferdinand hisses, and lunges forward with the lance.

Sylvain sidesteps it easily, and as Ferdinand passes, he twists and cracks his spear audibly against Ferdinand’s shoulders. Unbalanced, Ferdinand falls forward onto his chest. Sylvain pokes the butt of his spear into the back of Ferdinand’s head.

“One to nil,” says Byleth. Ashe whoops. Felix folds his arms.

Ferdinand tears off his ascot, dirtied as it is, and takes a breath to calm himself. The next match runs longer, but it’s clear Sylvain has the upper hand.

Sylvain moves like flame, twisting around Ferdinand. It’s like a dance. He’s obviously toying with Ferdinand, dragging the match on without landing a kill – Felix sees an opening here and there, but his attention is on Sylvain.

For such a lug, he can be so graceful when he tries. He moves with such an awareness of his own body, allowing the enemy lance to miss him by _this_ much, allow Ferdinand a taste of victory, but keeping it out of reach.

When he twists, the folds of muscle in his back and shoulders press against his shirt. It sticks to his body in the heat, revealing more and more creases and lines. He dances with Ferdinand, moves the way a poet speaks. Liquid water around river rocks. It’s mesmerizing, it’s-

Felix realizes he is gritting his teeth. Ferdinand hits the dirt with a crash, this time onto his back. Felix reaches for his canteen, angry.

Ferdinand finds his stride in the third match. Felix knows the expression on Sylvain’s face well. It’s beyond confidence – it’s cockiness. The stupid smirk he saw right before being felled a third time, too poor a spearman to actually knock the smirk from Sylvain’s face. He finds himself silently rooting for Ferdinand. He wants to see Sylvain fall on his arse.

Spears crack against each other, Ferdinand finally putting up a solid defense against Sylvain’s onslaught. Felix edges closer in his seat. Sylvain tries to toy with him, put on a show, but Ferdinand finally catches an opening. He hits him, hits him again, and finally jams the spear into Sylvain’s sternum. The blow is fatal, and Sylvain staggers backward, not quite giving Ferdinand the satisfaction of a fall.

“Two to one,” Byleth says.

Felix glances to the Eagles; Edelgard’s mouth is quirked into something reminiscent of a smile, but the expression could mean anything.

They fight again. Sylvain is finally taking the match seriously. The fourth bout takes longer, the two apparently evenly matched. It drags longer even than Ingrid’s fight. Gone is the fluid grace, but Sylvain fights beautifully even when he’s not making a performance out of it. He makes it look so easy.

Yet Ferdinand catches him again, a glancing blow across the waist that staggers him just enough for Ferdinand to – oh! – to push him over. How the mighty fall. Sylvain sprawls into the dirt face first, spear clattering from his grip. He lays still for a moment, long enough for Ferdinand to move forward as if to make sure he’s alright.

“Don’t bother,” he says, pushing himself up, “You couldn’t wound me if you tried.”

“That sounds like a challenge.” Now it’s Ferdinand’s turn to sound cocky.

Sylvain’s fall has torn the top two buttons right off of his shirt, leaving it hanging open to the base of his sternum. “It’s just a fact,” he grins, and proceeds to pull at his shirt, undoing the last couple of buttons. He yanks it off altogether, throwing it over with his jacket.

It just makes Felix angrier. There’s a purpling bruise on Sylvain’s chest, his broad and heavy chest, shiny with sweat. His abdomen is not cut and defined but a solid sheet of muscle. He tosses the spear up again and catches it, and the ropes of muscle in his shoulders and arms ripple under his skin.

Felix feels like breaking something.

Ferdinand’s eyes travel down Sylvain’s heavy torso and back up. He scoffs. “Is this supposed to intimidate me?”

"Only if it's working," he replies. He turns in place, arms out. "Besides, the ladies deserve a show."

Ingrid sticks out one arm and gives him a thumbs down; Felix can't help but laugh, tension breaking.

Ferdinand twirls his spear. "I thought I was fighting a lion! It seems I am just fighting a peacock!"

"Haw haw. Square up, songbird, I'll cook you for dinner!"

Their spears crack against each other; Felix can't tell who moved and who blocked. The two are a flurry of movements, whirling around each other. They use their spears as staves, twirling and striking instead of stabbing.

It's beautiful, really. The arcs of the spears and the rhythmic sounds of weapon meeting weapon. The dull shine of Sylvain's tanned skin eclipsed by the matte black of Ferdinand's jacket; they both have flames for hair. 

They become one, a kaleidoscopic suggestion of a fight, human shapes painted by a bonfire. It's easy to lose track of who is who, that there even is a who and a who.  
The two are so evenly matched. Each strike is met by an equal parry, and returned in kind. They are close, then far, then close again, pushing spear against spear until their noses nearly touch, and they're away from each other once more. 

Felix is holding his breath. The spectators are silent.

When one of them finally falls he's not even sure which one has just lost. Ferdinand almost has him, a blow to the stomach that should be fatal, but Sylvain twists out of the way at the last moment, nothing short of lucky. Ferdinand over-extends, unbalances, and Sylvain has a narrow opening to execute exactly the same blow.

Ferdinand staggers, doesn't fall, and then falls, falls like a bird alighting on a branch. Sylvain, unbalanced from reaching into the kill, staggers forward too and comes to sitting.  
What tips him off is the way Ferdinand clutches his stomach, while Sylvain just seems tired. Byleth and Catherine are already moving toward them. Mercedes hops up too and hurries after the teachers.

After a moment of quiet mutterimgs and ensuring that Ferdinand isn't seriously hurt, Byleth turns around and, with a slight smile, says, "3 to 2 for Blue Lions." 

Cheers go up, accompanied by polite applause from the Eagles. Sylvain looks exhausted but he's grinning ear to ear; Dimitri claps him on the back and Ingrid is right beside him, both singing praise. Felix folds his arms.

Ferdinand is winded but otherwise fine. He seems ashamed to be in Edelgard's line of sight, but the Eagles draw him in and praise him for a fight well fought.

Felix feels like he's smouldering inside. He feels antsy, fidgety. Catherine isn't able to finish asking for volunteers for the next bout before Felix is on his feet, rolling his shoulders, looking for a fight.

"Swords," he says, "Not spears. I challenge the Black Eagles to duel by the sword." If only he could challenge someone else, knock him down thrice in a row! 

The Eagles turn inward, discussing amongst themselves. Felix hopes he has a reputation for the blade, hopes it scares them. After a moment Caspar von Bergliez stands up, and declares, loudly enough for everyone else to hear, “What? I’m not scared of him!”

That is that, then. Felix knows a little about this boy. He’s more interested in martial arts and boxing, not so much weaponry. He also knows it would be stupid to underestimate him based on that. Caspar brings two practice swords with him and tosses one to Felix as he approaches. Not very sportsmanlike, Felix thinks as he catches it out of the air by the hilt.

Felix rolls his shoulders, gives the practice sword a swing or two to feel how it’s balanced, and then drops into stance. Caspar does the same, and the bout begins-  
and ends. 

Felix immediately goes on the offensive, frustration white-hot just under his skin, bubbling in his nerves. Caspar doesn’t even have time to react before Felix is right up close. Caspar attempts a block but Felix swats it away and kills him a moment later.

“Divine Seiros!” Caspar swears, voice driven up into a squeak by the surprise. Someone on the Eagles bench is booing. Felix has to consciously relax his face, unclench his jaw.

A moment later it’s Catherine’s voice that declares, “1 to nil for the Lions,” which shuts up the heckler. 

“Give me some warning next time!” Caspar protests, picking up his sword.

“Nobody will warn you on a field of battle,” Felix hisses through his teeth. It will sound like an idiotic, self-righteous thing to say when Felix thinks about it later.

This time Caspar takes a cue from Felix, charging into Felix’s space the moment he’s in stance. It is to be expected, he supposes. He twists away from Caspar, easily avoiding the heated assault. As soon as he’s out of the way Felix lifts the sword like it’s a hammer and strikes down on Caspar hard enough to – there’s an echoing _crack_ – send him sprawling. 

Mercedes is immediately out of her seat and hurrying over faster even than Byleth and Catherine. Caspar is mumbling something, slowly picking himself up.

“Felix!” she exclaims, and he thinks about how he has hardly ever heard her this angry. She crouches down by Caspar. “Are you alright?”

“Seiros,” Caspar swears again, “He hit me hard.”

Felix raises his practice sword to see that it has split right down the middle. Mercedes presses her hands along Caspar’s back, making him suck in a breath through his teeth. “Nothing broken,” she says, “Here, let me see.” 

Byleth is in front of Felix now, blocking his view. They are very calm. “You are to duel him,” they say, “Not slaughter him. This exercise is to teach the others about the sword, not to give you a chance to show off.”

“I am not _showing off_ ,” Felix says. It’s the first time he’s talked back to any of the professors. He lifts his chin, unconsciously trying to make himself a little taller, a little bigger.

“You-”

Mercedes has pulled Caspar’s shirt off; there’s already an angry red welt forming across his back. No blood, at least, but, and Felix realizes it, it looks not unlike he has been whipped with a branch. Felix feels himself deflate a little.

“If I was showing off,” he says, a little less hotly, “I would have toyed with him the way- the way that-”

Sylvain, across the courtyard, is facing Dorothea, leaning toward her, flirting with her with his shirt still off. He’s not paying the least bit of attention to Felix. He doesn’t care.

Somehow it feels even worse than losing a sparring match. He’s been kicked to the ground a hundred times in a row. 

He tosses the broken training sword away. There’s no fire left. Just a deep, cold resentment. “You are right. I forfeit, then.”

He turns away from Byleth and walks away. The professor shouts after him, tells him to come back, but he ignores it and stalks out of the courtyard.


	2. Chapter 2

Sylvain Jose Gautier thinks Felix used to be a lot more fun. It had been a couple years since they’d last seen each other, but when Sylvain found out they were both attending the officer’s academy at Garreg Mach, he was excited! When they were kids, they used to go on adventures. Terribly un-noble-like adventures, but Sylvain has always been terribly un-noble-like. The four of them would be back together, just like old times! But there was something different about Felix now.

Sylvain thinks Felix has turned into a bit of an arse, honestly. He takes himself so seriously now. He’s cold and joyless, and always seems to be looking for a fight. Say the wrong thing, look at him the wrong way, and he’s making threats and demanding a sword fight in the courtyard at dawn. Something about honour. Something about image. Blah blah blah.

What a boring way to live your life. That kind of aggression looks like it takes so much energy. If you put all of your time into being that serious and angry, you’ll forget to actually live.

Then again, Felix has always had a serious, self-conscious streak. Sylvain still remembers the first words he ever heard Felix say: “Who is this?” Not even directed at him! Ouch. You would think it would be Dimitri who spoke first, but no, Felix had put himself forward.

It was a sunny morning (well, Sylvain remembers it as sunny) in the spring, in the gardens on the grounds of Castle Blaiddyd. They were all nine (ten? eight?) years old, so long ago. Sylvain had been sent for tutoring, to the capital far from Gautier, where he could learn to be civilized and courtly. Evidently, his parents did not trust the provincial ways of the borderlands. They wanted their children to be worldly and cultured.

Well, they wanted Sylvain to be worldly and cultured, at least. His brother remained at home, learning statecraft, combat, tactics, and diplomacy. All of the necessary accoutrements for a prince. Because Sylvain wasn’t the heir, his presence was not a desperate necessity; they could spare him enough to give him a bit of civilizing.  
Sylvain, wide-eyed, had never seen a city, a castle, a garden so beautiful. Opulent was a word Ingrid would use for it. He secretly liked the word, but using it didn’t really suit his image. Opulent. The castle was built just as much for beauty as it was for practicality, not like the Gautier castle. In Gautier, the castles were strongholds, military fortresses needed to hold the line against Sreng. The Blaiddyd castle was a palace.

After an audience with the king – _the king of Faerghus_ – it was decided that young Sylvain should meet the prince. They were of an age, and would be attending lessons together, so it would do well for them to be introduced. There was also another ward in the castle, too, the young heir to the Duchy of Fraldarius and the second most powerful noble family in the country.

A good first impression was key. No pressure, though. All of this was a whirl.

Thus, the servant led Sylvain through the gardens to where the two boys played under the watchful eye of old man Molinaro. One fair, the other dark. It was the duke’s son that spoke first, addressing Molinaro and not Sylvain – “Who is this?”

“This is Lord Sylvain,” said the servant, kindly, “He is of House Gautier, far to the east. He will be your new classmate.”

“Oh,” said Felix.

Before he could say more, young Dimitri stepped forward and stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Sylvain,” he grinned. Sylvain grinned back and shook his hand.  
Behind him, Felix watched, his eyes intently fixed upon Sylvain’s face. And while Dimitri chattered, Sylvain looked past him, looked at Felix. Their eyes met, held, held for a long moment. Something about that look made Sylvain’s chest feel funny.

But he thought nothing of it, and turned back to Dimitri.

*

Sylvain can see the back of Ingrid’s head, the curves and twists of her braid distinctive in the mess hall. Exactly where he hoped she’d be. She’s sitting with Annette, who sees him first and gives him a little wave; he grins and waves back. He circles the hall, approaches on Annette’s side of the table, well within view.

“Oh,” Ingrid says, “Hello, Sylvain.”

“Ingrid!” he grins. He plants a hand on the table beside Annette, leaning forward. “Just who I wanted to see. Can I borrow you for just a moment?”

Annette scoots away from Sylvain, glancing between the two of them. “I’m almost done,” she says, “I can get out of here if you want.”

“No, no!” Sylvain says, “I’d hate to scare you off! I just need to ask Ingrid something, and you can have her back right away.”

Annette raises her eyebrows and looks at Ingrid, who laughs. “Do we need to be alone for this?”

“Ideally, yeah.”

She gives Annette a knowing look and gets up from the table. The two walk out of the mess hall and into the corridor outside. “What’s all of this about, Sylvain?”

“Not here,” he hisses, “Somewhere private.” He pulls her into an empty classroom nearby and shuts the door.

“You’re being very strangely,” she says, folding her arms. “I take it this isn’t about how beautiful I am.”

“No, it’s not,” he says, then catches himself. “Wait, no, you’re always gorgeous, that goes without saying!”

“Spit it out,” she says, but she’s grinning.

Sylvain looks around, to make sure the door is actually closed. Nobody in the room? Okay. In a low voice, he says, “Is it just me, or has Felix been acting kind of weird lately?”

Ingrid looks on, bemused. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know. I think he’s mad at me. Is he mad at me? Should I be going easier on him when we spar?”

She laughs softly. “If you went easy on him and he found out, he probably would actually kill you. I don’t know if he’s mad at you, though. This is just… how he is. Aloof, kind of moody, you know?”

Sylvain frowns. This isn’t the answer he wants to hear. He must have done something.

“Um-” Ingrid shrugs. “He’s changed since you left Blaiddyd,” she says, “He’s gotten more serious. I don’t think you have anything to do with that.” She breaks eye contact, just for a moment. “Things can change a lot in a few years.”

Something falls in Sylvain. Ingrid and Dimitri are a little different, of course, but they’re mostly how Sylvain remembers them. But Felix… is different. Has Sylvain really missed so much?

Suddenly there’s a hand on Sylvain’s shoulder. Ingrid’s, of course. Sylvain looks at it like he has no idea what it is. “I’ll talk to him,” she says, gently, “Maybe something has been bothering him. You know what he’s like – he keeps everything to himself.”

With dismay, Sylvain realizes he doesn’t know what Felix is like anymore.

He grins, banishes the sad thoughts for now. “Thanks, Ingrid. I knew I could count on you.”

“You’re both my friends,” she says, “I’m happy to help.”

Something wells up in Sylvain, and his grin turns genuine. “I’m, uh, glad we’re still friends, Ingrid.”

She gives him a pat on the shoulder. “Annette’s probably wondering if you’ve cornered me or something. Shall I tell her you were flirting with me?”

“Hey!”

“Flirting very badly.”

“Ingrid, come back here!”

*

Even at 10, Felix was fearsome with the sword. At least, Sylvain remembers him as fearsome. Certainly compared to Sylvain at that age, Felix was masterful.

"Let's play knights," Dimitri said one summer afternoon. Coming from the prince of Faerghus, it was not really a suggestion. Not to Sylvain, anyway, though Felix regularly voiced disagreement. The two were like brothers, always talking back to each other. Today, though, Felix didn’t voice any dissent.

Felix put his hands on his hips and, with all the authority a 10-year-old could muster, declared, "Dimitri and I will be brave knights of Faerghus. Sylvain can be a scary Sreng barbarian!"

"Two against one!?" Sylvain said, throwing his hands up, "That's no fair!"

"Everyone knows the Srengs suck," said Felix, "That's why we always beat them."

"Besides," said Dimitri, grinning, "We're the ten greats!" He had a long stick in one hand. There had been a storm last night, and the gardeners had yet to clean up the downed branches in the garden. He tossed the stick to Sylvain while he found another one.

"There were ten greats, genius." Sylvain spun the stick and promptly dropped it. "'The two greats' just sounds stupid."

"The other eight are doing something else," Felix said, "The two of us can handle the king of Sreng. Because we're so great and everything."

Well, Sylvain didn't mind being king, but he knew he was about to get clobbered. He looked around wildly, then spotted old man Molinaro talking to the gardeners; beside him was his silver-blond son, young Dedue, a boy of an age with the three of them. "Dedue!" he shouted, "Dedue, help me!"

Dedue glanced at the three princelings, frowning in confusion. His father gave him a gentle pat on the back, as if to tell him to go and play. He took a hesitant step forward.

"Hey!" Felix protested, grinning and brandishing another branch. Suddenly he broke into a run, forcing Sylvain to start running too.

"Dedue!!" Sylvain shouted, "Dedue, Sreng barbarians are chasing me! Faerghus needs your help!"

" _You're_ the barbarian!" Felix cried, "Not me!"

Dedue caught on a moment later and ran to help, chasing after Felix, Dimitri hot on his heels.

The valiant young knights raced through the gardens, disturbing the servants' careful work, whooping and laughing. Felix caught up and duelled Sylvain, but instead of a sword, Sylvain's branch became a lance, and he poked at Felix. 

Dedue had no need of a branch; he was already taller and bigger than the other boys. When Felix and Dimitri tried to gang up on Sylvain, Dedue threw himself onto Dimitri from behind, knocking them both into the grass to roll and wrestle. 

"En garde!" Felix shouted, and the two duelled under the summer heat. They whacked each other with the branches, but in their heads they held shining, wicked weapons of steel and gold. They were not ten year old boys, but tall and dashing knights in sublime armor, fighting for honour and glory. They could hear the imagined clink of full plate, the clang of metal and metal on metal. 

Their fight drove them back into an ornamental copse of trees, the queen's pleasure garden where she could escape from the world and enjoy a game of chess or a book of poems. There, in the shade, out of sight from Dimitri and Dedue, they fight, breathless, grinning.

There, Felix hit Sylvain’s lance with the edge of his blade, knocking it from his grip. They were 10, playing knights in a forest. They are 18, training for a life of combat in a monastery far from home. They will be 23, keeping their skills sharp as Faerghus marches to war, prepared to kill and be killed on the field of battle, fighting against old friends.  
But not yet. Not just yet. They were still 10. 

The motion unbalanced Felix, and before Sylvain could react to the rough sting of tree bark tearing from his grip, Felix was falling forward into Sylvain. They crashed to the ground, Sylvain on his back, Felix’s hands in the dirt on either side of his head. Their chests heaved with exertion. Felix grinned at him, wild-eyed, and Sylvain laughed breathlessly back at him.

Sylvain realizes he is staring. The world, distilled into a single moment. 

There was a shout that sounded like Dimitri, somewhere a universe away. “Get off of me,” Sylvain said, without nearly as much force as he’d expected.

Felix did just that, scrambled to get up. “Looks like I win,” he said, face all flushed.

“I’ll get you next time!”

Dimitri appeared through the trees, face and hair bright. “Are you two alright?”

“Yeah,” they both said, quickly.

“Father’s mad at us. We messed up the garden.”

Felix and Sylvain looked at each other, and then both ran away from Dimitri, out the other side of the queen’s garden, away from the king’s looming disappointment for the time being. Dimitri shouted something behind them, yelled at them to come back, but they ran, laughing, together.

*

If Mercedes is the Blue Lions' big sister, Sylvain is their big brother, especially to the younger Faerghans like Annette and Ashe, who seem to look up to him in a different way than how they look up to Dimitri. Sylvain isn't sure why they do; he doesn't think he's done anything special. But if someone depends on him, he can't just let them down.

This goes especially true now that he's stopped flirting with Mercedes. Ingrid gave him a stern talking-to a few weeks ago. Fine, fine, he'll shift his focus to foreign relations. Good thing he learned a bit about diplomacy.

The weirder thing is the way some of the other students seem to have adopted him as a fraternal figure, too. For example, he's on his way to the dormitories now with a platter of sweets he's stolen from the kitchen. 

Linhardt von Hevring and Caspar von Bergliez are lingering, leaning against the wall beside one door in particular. Once Sylvain's footsteps come into earshot, Linhardt's head whips around to look at him, his face flushed. There are rumours about those two. It's nothing that concerns Sylvain - but that doesn’t stop Sylvain from wanting to be in the know.

"How bad is it?" he says, balancing the platter on one hand. He has an urge to spin it or something, and then has a vision of sweets scattering all over the hallway.

"She hasn't come out all day," Caspar says, "She even missed class!"

"I don't blame her," Linhardt says. Sylvain nods at that. 

"Any ideas why?" he asks, feeling like a watchman investigating a crime.

"None!" Caspar says.

Linhardt shrugs. "Lysithea probably stole her notebook again." Caspar whacks him on the shoulder. "What!"

Sylvain leans against the wall on the other side of the door and raps his knuckles against it. "Miss von Varley?" he calls, "Delivery for Miss von Varley?"

No answer. He knocks again. "There's a delivery here for the young mistress of Varley."

A tiny, miserable voice threads through the door. "No one is home. Go away."

Sylvain looks down at the platter. "Well, I could deliver these tarts and candies to the mysterious voice inside Miss von Varley's room instead. Could you give these to her next time you see her?"

A hesitant silence. Linhardt raises his eyebrows.

"I will just have to send these back to the kitchens, then. What a shame! They'll probably all get thrown out."

There's a noise, and the door opens a crack, just wide enough for a sliver of Bernadetta's face to show through. "Hi Sylvain."

Sylvain acts very surprised to see her. "Bernie!" he says, "I was hoping you were here!"

He can feel her roll her eyes. "Did Dorothea set you up to this?" Her voice is very small and very suspicious.

"Caspar, actually," he says. The door opens a little wider, just wide enough to see Linhardt there, and one can easily assume Caspar is right with him. Linhardt gives her a wave.

"Oh." She hesitates, and then says, "What kind of tarts?"

"You have to come out and see," Sylvain says, "I can't fit this plate through the door."

She considers this, and then opens the door a bit more. "I haven't eaten all day."

"That's not good for you, Bernie," he says. He's channeling Mercedes all of a sudden. "Luckily I've brought you a very healthy meal of… well, pastries and jam, I guess. And sugar."

The door finally opens, just as Sylvain spots someone else come into the hall. None of the Eagles seem to notice. He shifts his attention back to the task at hand for now, holding the tray out to Bernadetta as she exits the room.

Gingerly she takes one of the tarts from the plate and inspects it as if it could be poisoned. “Oh, strawberry!” she says, a little more vigour in her voice. She bites into it right there, finally fully out of her room and in the hallway. “It’s so tasty,” is what Sylvain thinks she tells him, muffled as it is by the pastry in her mouth. “Thank you, Sylvain.”

Sylvain picks two up off the plate with one hand and passes the plate to Caspar. “My pleasure. You should be showing your pretty face outside more often.” He grins. “The sunshine suits you.”

Her eyes widen and her cheeks turn pink, but instead of backing into her room again she giggles and covers the lower part of her face with her free hand. He winks at her and starts to move away from them.

Caspar leans into him as he passes and whispers, “You’re like a wizard!”

“I’ve had practice,” he says, and gives Caspar a pat on the shoulder.

He walks down the hallway to the person waiting for him, and extends the hand carrying the tarts. “Strawberry,” he says, “Your favourite.”

“Are they both for me?” Ingrid says. She eyes the pastries hungrily.

“Hey, hey, don’t be greedy.”

She takes one of them and sinks her teeth into it. Her eyes close for a moment as she chews through it. “I can’t believe you remember.”

“Remember what?”

“That strawberry’s my favourite!”

Sylvain laughs. “What do you mean, remember? How could I not! The way your face lit up just now - how could I forget a face like that?”

“Oh, shut up,” she says, and gives him a good-natured shove with one hand. 

“Have you talked to Felix?”

Ingrid’s face turns thoughtful and serious now, even though she’ll still looking at the half-eaten tart. “I have,” she says, “But he didn’t say much. He says you make him mad and that he’s going to wipe that smug smile off of your face next time you spar, or something.”

Sylvain raises his eyebrows. “Well, he’s welcome to try.” More than welcome. “Any idea why I make him so mad?”

Ingrid just shrugs. “He wouldn’t say.” She bites into the tart.

He just frowns, more convinced than ever that he’s done something wrong. But what? Logically he should go talk to Felix, but… there’s something about Felix. He doesn’t want to approach him. “Do you think you could keep talking to him, Ingrid?”

“I’ll see what I can do. Maybe he was just in a bad mood today.”

“When is he not?”

She just laughs at that.

*

By winter, they were inseparable. The three boys took meals together, had lessons together, and played games together, games meant to prepare them for the life of a nobleman. Sylvain and Felix even slept in Dimitri's chambers.

They had no doubt that they would be together forever. 

The snows came to Blaiddyd later than Gautier, and the days stayed milder than they did in the foothills to the northwest. The house of Gautier would be wrapped in furs while Sylvain playfought in the still-green gardens.

The snows did come eventually, but when Dimitri began to don a mantle of black and grey furs, Sylvain remained in his doublet, unbothered.

"Northerners," Felix said one morning, when frost glittered on the grass, "Are probably made of ice. That's why you don't get cold."

Sylvain grinned at him. His hair was long enough now that it kept falling into his eyes. "I'm not made of ice," he said, "Here, look." He grabbed one of Felix's hands, pale and slender, and pressed it to his own cheek, held it there with his palm.

Felix blinked, and cupped Sylvain's face. His eyes seemed to stare into another world. "You're warm," he said.

"Northerners are made of fire," he said, "That's why we don't get cold." Sylvain was, is still, oblivious to the way Felix stared at him like something otherworldly, something beautiful.

Felix yanked his hand away a moment later. "Quit bragging about it, then. I'm cold."

Poor Fraldarius, further to the south than Blaiddyd, was even warmer still. When it snowed, it was a sparkling inch of fairy dust that vanished in the sun. Felix was not prepared for a Blaiddyd winter.

"Someday you have to visit Gautier," Sylvain declared one day after another frost.

"Not until you get rid of the whole winter thing," Felix complained, pulling his cloak around him, even as Sylvain pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. "Gautier sounds way too cold."

The other thing about winter in Blaiddyd, as in Gautier, was the way it happened all at once. Leaves fell off trees, the world slowly greyed, but these were just preludes. Often overnight, the snow came down in force, and the grey autumn decay was buried under a mountain of winter.

"Look!" was the word that woke Sylvain and Dimitri that morning. Felix, the shutters of the prince's (of their) window thrown open, leaned out into the air, one arm extended to catch the snowflakes as they drifted to earth.

Sylvain hopped out of bed first, awake in a flash. He pushed in beside Felix to peer out the window. The garden below was a tableau of sparkling white. Several inches had appeared, burying their playground. Each branch of the trees was outlined in snow, white on white on white. 

“It’s beautiful,” Felix said, each word appearing in puffs ahead of him.

Sylvain wasn’t looking at the snow. Felix’s eyes were wide, shining. His mouth hung half-open, in awe, as the cold already reddened his cheeks. Some things were even more mesmerizing than a blanket of fresh snow. Sylvain couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah,” he agreed.

The moment hung for a sublime eternity before it was broken by a groggy voice behind them. “Close the window,” Dimitri said, groggy, “It’s cold.” He pulled a quilt over himself and rolled over to face away from them.

“No eye for beauty,” Felix said, shutting the window, “You big dumb boar.”

As much as Felix wanted to go play in the snow, and as much as Sylvain wanted to teach him about snowball fights, they needed to remain presentable for a few hours. During mid-morning, old man Molinaro summoned them to the great hall to meet another new arrival to the palace

Another ward, like Sylvain and Felix, but not come just for tutoring and camaraderie. No, this was a matter of protection, the young heir of an unstable house.

They met a kindly old woman in the great hall, and with her was a girl of ten, of age with the three boys. She was much smaller than them. She was very fair, her hair honey-gold compared to Dimitri’s sunshine blond, and tied into two little braids that hung over her shoulders. Her face was very pale, her cheeks red - whether from the cold or embarrassment, it was hard to say. Her huge blue eyes darted from face to face and she shrank into her furred coats, the lower half of her face obscured by her muff, and her mitten-covered hands pulled up to clutch at her chest.

It was the old servant woman who spoke. “This is Lady Ingrid,” she said, “Of House Galatea. Go ahead, milady, say hello.”

Lady Ingrid stood there, frozen like a pretty little statue, her eyes wide. Sylvain decided that her face was red from the cold, and that her pallor beneath that was nothing short of terror.

“I’m Sylvain,” he said, stepping forward toward Ingrid. The girl flinched and shrank back from him. “And this is Felix, and that’s Prince Dimitri.” When he said ‘prince’, Ingrid looked like she was about to faint altogether. The servant woman kept a reassuring hand on Ingrid’s shoulder.

Dimitri stepped forward. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Ingrid.” He made a gracious bow with as much seriousness as a child of ten possessed. Ingrid’s head moved slightly in a way that could possibly be interpreted as a bow.

There was an uncomfortable pause, so Sylvain broke it. “Do you want to go play in the snow?” he asked Ingrid. Old man Molinaro said something to remind him of their lessons, but relented a moment later when Ingrid’s face changed, just a little. She shifted in her furs, just enough to show the rest of her face, to show that the ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

Molinaro sighed through a laugh. “You can take your lessons this afternoon, then.”

Sylvain grinned, and gestured for the other two to follow him. With the servants trailing behind, he pulled Ingrid along out into the garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all the flashbacks were kind of an experiment and i haven't decided how in-depth i'm going to go with them. i don't really have a plan for, well, anything in this story, i'm really just doing whatever feels right. so expect a structurally very inconsistent story!
> 
> also idk anything about fodlan that isn't the monastery so all of my flashback worldbuilding will probably get trashed when the game comes out lmao


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so like i got my faerghus geography all wrong in the last chapter and every new detail that comes out about this game makes this fic more and more inaccurate lmao. the game comes out in like 6 days now but i'll power through to the end and don't be surprised if everything about this fic is wildly canon-divergent

The sound of swords moving and striking always seems to draw Felix. He spends a lot of time around the sparring fields and the courtyard anyway, but when weapons start to fly, his lecture notes tend to get forgotten, his attention always on dueling first, studying second.

Truth be told, he could best just about any of his peers at the academy at the sword, except maybe Princess Edelgard. Sparring sessions between students are rarely interesting. Sure, mentally criticizing Ignatz's clumsy sword thrusts or watching Annette lose her grip on a blade mid swing and pitch it across the courtyard might be good for a laugh, but he has nothing to learn from them.

The Knights of Seiros, though, were different.

Even veteran knights need to keep their skills sharp. When there are no bandits to clean out or unrest to quell, that leaves them on the sparring field. Today, Lady Catherine and Jelitza fight. Jelitza reminds Felix of himself, in a way; he's smaller and quicker than Catherine, a duelist. Catherine has raw strength on her side, but it's hard to use against a target that is always just out of reach. 

They both wear armor, as if in battle. Their swords, although blunted, are metal, and just as heavy as the real thing (Felix knows, having tried them out himself away from the eyes of Professor Byleth). They are still weapons, and can still do some serious damage. 

Jelitza doesn't have the strength to knock Catherine down, so he seems to be trying to wear her out instead, goad her into a mistake that he can exploit. The teachers fight with the same rules as the students - a fatal strike is a victory. But that is made harder in plate.

Felix has never fought in plate before. He has worn it, and practised moving in it, of course. It is heavy, but not as hindering as it looks, provided it is well made. However, the proper musculature is needed to use it well, as with so many things in the realm of combat and warfare. Simply wearing and moving and fighting in plate is what is needed to develop the body to support it. Felix has simply focussed on other pursuits.

Jelitza does not wear as much armor as Catherine anyway. Enough to protect his vitals, but it isn't the full metal casing that Catherine wears. He seems to be comfortable enough like that, though. It allows his quicker movements. But it also leaves him more exposed to Catherine, which means his quickness becomes his defense.

Catherine would really only have to land a hit on Jelitza to kill him. Jelitza has the harder task of getting close to her and driving his blade through one of the joints in her plate, the little gaps in the articulation that allow her to move. The necessary flaw in the design.

Felix's thoughts travel as he watches them, watches Catherine's silvery armor flash in the sun. Felix is 18 now; even if he wanted to develop himself enough to move and fight properly in full plate, it would take years of training. He has probably missed that chance altogether. It makes him wonder, a little, about what other paths he could have taken, but it doesn't bother him too much.

He knows Sylvain has been training with plate for several years now. Even when he was still at Blaiddyd he began wearing it. It's part of the reason he has the physique he does now, the physique he is growing into.

He has a beautiful set of plate that he wears during field exercises. The metal is dark, dark, almost black, black in certain light. Sylvain is fearsome armored and on the field, cased in shining black armor with a head of flame. Sylvain keeps it shiny and polished, carefully buffing out the scuffs, although he takes pride in some of the deeper scratches. A knight in pristine and shining armor, Ingrid has said before, has never seen combat. Felix has listened to Sylvain pointing at this scratch and that, telling Hilda and Dorothea and Edelgard about the time he caught an axe blow from a bandit lord moments before slaying him, or how this was from a traitorous knight the Lions had been sent to capture.

He cares so much about that stupid armor. If only he cared that much about--

The clink of swords catch his attention. Catherine has almost killed Jelitza, but he blocked her swing at the last moment. He holds his sword with both hands, pushing back against her blade as she tries to drive it down into him. He is clearly exerting more effort than she is, gritting his teeth and hissing. But a moment later he successfully pushes her off and gets out of the way before she can follow up.

He fights beautifully. Sylvain fights like fire, but Jelitza fights like leaves twisting in the air. He flits around Catherine lights as a breeze, never in the same place one moment to the next. When Catherine moves to swing, he's simply not there. He hardly makes any moves himself, waiting and watching and moving. It keeps Catherine on her toes - hell, it keeps Felix on his toes - not knowing when or where or if Jelitza will strike, quick and sharp like a hornet.

He makes a move - there! - an osprey diving for a fish, but Catherine shifts, maybe not even on purpose, and closes the window. Jelitza's strike turns into a feint. Catherine is too smart to fall for what she thinks is a trap, not even seeing the attack until after it was aborted.

Their fight has been running long. With the students it usually only takes a couple of minutes before one of them gets the upper hand and topple the other, but Catherine and Jelitza have been locked together for a little while now. Despite such different styles and strategies they are remarkably well matched. 

The end of the fight is not showy at all, but impressive nonetheless. Jelitza manages to get around Catherine in such a way that she can see his body, but his offhand is just out of sight, reaching around behind her. His sword slides through a gap in her armor just under her shoulder, pokes her in the ribs. She feels it. Felix doesn't even see what has just happened until Catherine laughs a breathless, tired laugh, and drops her sword into the dust with a resounding thud.

"3 to 2," Jelitza says. There is no braggery, or pride, or gloating. It's a simple statement of fact. They have been sparring for an hour.

"Well played," Catherine says. Both of them are drenched in sweat. They fight without helmets, but their hair is wet and sticks to their faces. 

Felix makes his way down to the courtyard shortly after. Catherine is pulling off her armor on her own, unbuckling all of the straps and freeing herself from the sheets of metal.   
She is occupied with that, so Felix approaches Jelitza, who has taken several layers off as well. He is wiry, but entirely made of muscle. His body reminds Felix of a taut bowstring, vibrating with power and ready to strike. "Professor," Felix says.

Jelitza glances at him. His mask has stayed on the entire hour, and remains on now. It does not particularly obscure his appearance, but it still makes Felix uneasy. Perhaps that is the point. "Young Fraldarius." His words are as detached as his face.

"Will you teach me?" It is not the first time he has asked.

Jelitza blinks, and after a moment says, "No." It is not the first time he has rejected him.

Felix is not deterred. This exchange has happened before, so he decides to try something new. "Will you duel me, then?"

The mask makes him so hard to read, but Felix imagines him cocking an eyebrow. His answer takes longer this time, but again, he says, "No."

Unbelievable! Felix begins to say something more, but halfway through inhaling Jelitza says, "Neither of us would benefit from such a thing. I would kill you. I could kill you." The same word twice, but different. The hairs on the back of Felix's neck stand up. "Find an equal among the students."

Felix is bristling. All he hears is, ‘You are not good enough. You are not as good as you think you are.’ He stands a little taller, lifts his chin. He is taller than Jelitza, so why does he feel like Jelitza is looking down his nose at him?

"You are making fine progress," he says, "You have learned to walk, but you must still learn to run."

Oh, the indignity. Felix clenches and unclenches his jaw, mentally weighing what he could say, how much he could say, before being reprimanded. "None of the students are my equal," he says, and he does believe that. "I cannot be bested on the sparring ring."

"You look down on them so?"

His mind shifts to another time, another place, just for a moment. He wasn't even looking. He wasn't even there. He left. He left him. How could he leave him?

"Well-"

"Then you are narrow minded," says Jelitza, "And are certainly not fit to fight me." The worst part is that it's clearly not meant to be an insult.

Felix could break that sword with his bare hands. He resists a violent urge and instead stands there, unmoving, as Jelitza walks away.

*

"Before we finish for the day," Byleth tells the Blue Lions at the end of Monday's lecture, "I have some important news. The monastery has been contacted by the Barony of Arianrhod. They are having trouble with banditry; the city itself is strapped for resources and so are seeking aid. From us."

Felix looks at Ingrid, who sits at the same desk. Arianrhod neighbours Galatea, her own home. Ingrid's face is set into a frown. Sylvain sits on the other side of the aisle, visible past her. He can't see him well enough to get a read.

"Lady Rhea," Byleth continues, "Has decided that the Lions will handle this. It is your country, and you are lacking in field experience." This is not said unkindly, but Felix finds them hard to read. Their tone could be anything at once; it bothers him.

But then they smile. "I've seen what you all can do, and I know this is well within your capabilities. But remember that this is not the sparring ring. These are foes who will quite literally want to kill you. There is no shame in retreat; I'd rather you bruised and defeated than dead." 

Felix narrows his eyes. Obviously he understands that a life of warmaking inherently carries with it the risk of, well, death, but there is something strange about Byleth speaking so plainly about it. He doesn't let himself feel a chill, doesn’t let his confidence falter. He's ready for this, he thinks.

"I'll be with you," Byleth says, "On the field I will be your commander, and you all my officers. Follow my plans, and this will all go well." There's something reassuring in that. "Our date of departure is not yet set, but it will not be for several days. You have time to get ready. Until then, I'll see you again tomorrow. Class is dismissed."

Ingrid catches Felix in the corridor on his way out of the lecture hall. She's grinning, but her eyebrows betray her nerves. "Felix, wait up! "We should practice together."

"Practice together?" he says stupidly. His brain is elsewhere. 

She's in front of him, walking backwards. She mimes swinging a sword around. "You know, spar! I want to be in top shape for this quest."

"It's a quest, is it?"

"Well, yes!"

"That sounds like an excellent idea," comes Dimitri's voice, and the prince is there too. "If you wouldn't mind a third."

Dimitri is as tall as Sylvain, and just as broad. The only Lion bigger than them is Dedue, but he's an exception, Felix thinks. Felix doesn't feel dwarfed by him, though, which is a blessing. He is sunlight, though, not flame, and it's because of his fair hair as much as it is his polite smiles and kind, if a little awkward, disposition. And as much as Felix wants to go away by himself, these two (his two close friends) are hard to deny.

Felix feels himself start to smile. The moment passes almost immediately, though, when Sylvain lopes over. "What, training session without me?"  
Everything inside goes cold and hard. The smile is gone before it even arrives. He narrows his eyes at Sylvain, stares daggers at him. If he notices the sudden shift, he doesn't even acknowledge it, which is the worst part.

"It will be just like old times," Dimitri says warmly, "Remember when we used to play at knights in the gardens?" Ingrid looks elated at the suggestion.

"No, thank you," Felix says, stiffly. Her expression plummets. "I have a previous engagement."

He hears them call after him as he walks away, asking him to come with them. Ingrid and Dimitri do, anyway. He manages, somehow, not to turn around and look back.

*

He always seems to find himself back at the sparring fields anyway. He does not seek out the other Lions, but instead comes to find the Golden Deer occupying the courtyard; despite wanting to be nowhere near Sylvain, he couldn't deny that sparring felt like a good idea. He's not nervous about the field exercise, or at least he's not scared. But he's not stupid. Even he needs to sharpen his skills now and then.

The Deer are practising with swords this week, so he asks Manuela if he can join in for the afternoon. They're happy to have him, sure. "You're not here to join us permanently, are you?" Claude von Regan asks him. Felix must admit that Claude is handsome, and his easy smile is charming indeed. "I would love to see the look on Dimitri's face."

Felix gets the odd impression that that smile doesn't quite reach Claude's eyes. It's more than a little off putting. When Sylvain smiles Felix can see it in his whole body.

Felix manages a laugh. "I would have to think about it. I certainly won't defect to a lord who can't best me in combat."

Claude makes a gesture of challenge with one hand. "If I beat you here, then you'll join us, will you?"

"I said I would think about it." He is thinking about it. He imagines Sylvain's face, and quickly pushes the image from his mind. Dimitri and Ingrid would be crushed, wouldn't they? 

"Why don't I get you to start thinking, then." Claude grabs a sword from Manuela and another for Felix.

Felix beats Claude twice in a row. It's really not hard, truth be told; he knows Claude is an archer first, and can see it in the way he fights. He doesn't like getting close to Felix, and tries to stay back as long as he can. When Felix closes the gap, Claude's only real strategy is to back off and keep Felix at arm's length. 

There's no way around it: Claude is just not a very good swordsman. But that means there's a bizarre new challenge in fighting him. Because he is so inexperienced here, he doesn't know a lot of the standard stances and moves that Felix expects from other opponents. Even if they are executed clumsily, Felix knows what they are and how to counter them. Claude, though, moves so erratically that Felix hardly knows where to look, let alone how to counter this. As a result, when Claide gets brave enough to move in for an attack, he lands a strike on Felix's arm. Not fatal, but it stings.

"I almost had you," Claude grins. 

Dimitri is the gentle rays of morning light at dawn, and Sylvain is the red flare of sunset. But Claude, Felix thinks, is the hot and harsh blaze of the noonday summer sun.

“Almost isn’t enough,” Felix says, but it’s light, _almost_ fun.

As they fight Dimitri sees a very easy opening in Claude’s defense, a clumsy mistake on his part, and he moves, ready to jab his sword in toward Claude’s ribs in a move that would surely end the bout. He extends his sword - but Byleth is there in his head. ‘This is to teach Claude about the sword,’ their disembodied voice says, an echo of something they told him not long ago, ‘Not to give you a chance to show off.’

His sword falters, and Claude slaps it away.

Felix frowns, suddenly looking, really looking, at Claude, looking at his sloppy stance, the odd way he holds the sword. He feels his own sword drop a little. This feels weird. He feels his drive to fight suddenly sapping out of him.

This isn’t a fair fight, not at all. What good would it do for Felix to swoop in and defeat Claude right now? And what good would it do Claude, other than remind him how poor a swordsman he is? 

Damn it. Jelitza was right.

Claude sees Felix’s hesitation as an opening and moves forward; Felix snaps out of it just in time to block the assault and push it back; the sword tears out of Claude’s grip.

“Spread your feet like this,” Felix says, once Claude has his sword back.

Claude is smiling but the expression turns quizzical. “What’s this?”

“You stance is terrible,” Felix says, and it comes out sharper than he’d intended. Claude’s head jerks in surprise. “It’s terrible and unstable. Copy how I’m standing.”

Claude hesitates for a moment, and then shifts a little into a stance closer to the one Felix is in. “Feet further apart,” Felix says, “And untense your shoulders.” 

Claude gives him a confused laugh. “What are you doing?”

Jelitza is there in his head alongside Byleth, the two of them scrutinizing him. “I could clobber you right now,” he says, “You might as well get something out of it.”

“You are an odd duellist, Fraldarius,” Claude says, “I’ve never seen anyone coach their opponent in the middle of a match.”

“This is a one-time offer,” Felix shrugs, “We could just fight.”

He tilts his head, regarding Felix. “How do I know your advice is worth taking?”

In response Felix darts forward; Claude raises his sword to block but Felix is already twisting around him, away from the enemy blade; he’s around Claude in a flash, faster than he can keep track. When Claude tries to follow him and block a next assault, Felix moves again, light on his feet, and drives into the easy opening he leaves. He stops with the tip of his sword an inch from Claude’s neck.

“I could put this sword through your neck,” Felix says, “And you’d be dead. Three to nil for me.”

Claude looks down the sword, keeping his chin raised away from its tip. His eyes travel up to Felix’s body, up, toward his face. Felix suddenly feels very strange. Claude smiles. “Alright, alright, I’m sold. You can let me go now.”

Felix has the skill to keep Claude from getting too close, so his impromptu session lasts a good 20 minutes. Every time Claude tries to be clever and exploit Felix’s focus on instruction rather than combat, Felix catches him and blocks the assault - although, he’ll admit, Claude’s attacks become a little more skilled toward the end.

Instead, Felix corrects his grip, his stance, even the swing of his arm. It’s a bizarre feeling, instructing these things, and he certainly is trying not to think about what Manuela might be thinking watching this. And the fact that Claude seems to start improving makes him feel… good? Interesting. 

After almost 20 minutes Claude makes another attack at him and Felix blocks it easily, and this time follows through and sends the sword home, poking Claude in the stomach.  
“Oof! That didn’t feel good.”

“That’s the match,” he says, “Three to nil.”

“Getting tired of teaching me?” Claude says, “I was just starting to enjoy myself!”

“I’m afraid I’ve got places to be,” he says, and tosses the practice sword to Claude, who catches it easily. “Besides, I would hate to run the professors out of a job.”

“You know,” says Claude, “If we were training with bows instead of swords, I’d kill you.”

Where has he heard that before? Something tightens in his chest. It takes effort to fight this feeling and focus again.

He turns to leave the courtyard when Claude says behind him, “So you won’t even think about joining the Deer, huh?”

Felix doesn’t look back. “Not a chance.”


End file.
